Sourcery

great deal of money, I am afraid, it is hard to achieve simplicity. One does one’s best.” He sighed.
    “You could try giving it away,” said Conina.
    He sighed again. “That isn’t easy, you know. No, one just has to try to do a little with a lot.”
    “No, no, but look,” said Rincewind spluttering bits of stick, “they say, I mean, everything you touch turns into gold , for goodness sake.”
    “That could make going to the lavatory a bit tricky,” said Conina brightly. “Sorry.”
    “One hears such stories about oneself,” said Creosote, affecting not to have heard. “So tiresome. As if wealth mattered. True riches lie in the treasure houses of literature.”
    “The Creosote I heard of,” said Conina slowly, “was head of this band of, well, mad killers. The original Assassins, feared throughout hubward Klatch. No offense meant.”
    “Ah yes, dear father,” said Creosote junior. “The hashishim . Such a novel ideal. * But not really very efficient. So we hired Thugs instead.”
    “Ah. Named after a religious sect,” said Conina knowingly.
    Creosote gave her a long look. “No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think so. I think we named them after the way they push people’s faces through the back of their heads. Dreadful, really.”
    He picked up the parchment he had been writing on, and continued, “I seek a more cerebral life, which is why I had the city center converted into a Wilderness. So much better for the mental flow. One does one’s best. May I read you my latest oeuvre?”
    “Egg?” said Rincewind, who wasn’t following this.
    Creosote thrust out one pudgy hand and declaimed as follows:
“ A summer palace underneath the bough ,
A flask of wine, a loaf of bread, some lamb couscous
with courgettes, roast peacock tongues, kebabs, iced
sherbet, selection of sweets from the trolley and
choice of Thou ,
Singing beside me in the Wilderness ,
And Wilderness is —”
    He paused, and picked up his pen thoughtfully.
    “Maybe cow isn’t such a good idea,” he said. “Now that I come to look at it—”
    Rincewind glanced at the manicured greenery, carefully arranged rocks and high surrounding walls. One of the Thous winked at him.
    “This is a Wilderness?” he said.
    “My landscape gardeners incorporated all the essential features, I believe. They spent simply ages getting the rills sufficiently sinuous. I am reliably informed that they contain prospects of rugged grandeur and astonishing natural beauty.”
    “And scorpions,” said Rincewind, helping himself to another honey stick.
    “I don’t know about that,” said the poet. “Scorpions sound unpoetic to me. Wild honey and locusts seem more appropriate, according to the standard poetic instructions, although I’ve never really developed the taste for insects.”
    “I always understood that the kind of locust people ate in wildernesses was the fruit of a kind of tree,” said Conina. “Father always said it was quite tasty.”
    “Not insects?” said Creosote.
    “I don’t think so.”
    The Seriph nodded at Rincewind. “You might as well finish them up, then,” he said. “Nasty crunchy things, I couldn’t see the point.”
    “I don’t wish to sound ungrateful,” said Conina, over the sound of Rincewind’s frantic coughing. “But why did you have us brought here?”
    “Good question.” Creosote looked at her blankly for a few seconds, as if trying to remember why they were there.
    “You really are a most attractive young woman,” he said. “You can’t play a dulcimer, by any chance?”
    “How many blades has it got?” said Conina.
    “Pity,” said the Seriph, “I had one specially imported.”
    “My father taught me to play the harmonica,” she volunteered.
    Creosote’s lips moved soundlessly as he tried out the idea.
    “No good,” he said. “Doesn’t scan. Thanks all the same, though.” He gave her another thoughtful look. “You know, you really are most becoming. Has anyone ever told you your neck is as a tower of ivory?”
    “Never,” said Conina.
    “Pity,” said Creosote again. He rummaged among his cushions and produced a small bell, which he rang.
    After a while a tall, saturnine figure appeared from behind the pavilion. He had the look of someone who could think his way through a corkscrew without bending, and a certain something about the eyes which would have made the average rabid rodent tiptoe away, discouraged.
    That man, you would have said, has got Grand Vizier written